


Confessional

by osmalic



Category: CW), Supernatural (owned by E. Kripke, WB
Genre: Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, M/M, Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-25
Updated: 2008-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:46:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean forgives Sam for not being the one who brings him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessional

Sam takes one look at the room and insists they get a new one. He walks up to the desk clerk, complains about flimsy ceiling mirrors and threatens lawsuits. Dean walks past him, but he catches the way Sam's voice stumbles when he says, "Yeah, two queens."

As if he still can't believe it. As if it's still not real.

* * *

Dean lies on his bed, wide awake and staring at the wall. Resolutely trying not to stare at Sammy's broad back. It feels a little like when he got Sam from Stanford (a long, long time ago, has it only been four years?), when they were both two pieces of two different puzzles, trying to fit together to build a picture. Dean feels raw and uncertain, because everything that needed to be said had already been said, and he thinks there's probably nothing else to say even after four months of not being together.

"Dean," Sam's voice says in the darkness.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. "Yeah," he says hoarsely.

"You awake, man?"

Dean rolls his eyes and he hears Sam sighing at his own stupid question. "Seriously, what kind of question is that?" he mutters.

The mattress squeaks its hinges Sam shifts on the other bed, and Dean thinks about how four months ago they would have gotten two queens but they would probably be sleeping on only one of them.

"Dean." Sam's voice is hushed, serious. "What did you and Bobby do?"

"Huh?" Dean rolls over to find Sam staring at him, his eyes glinting against the dim light.

"You said you went out for drinks." Dean is silent, unsure of how to answer it, until Sam continues for him, "You summoned it, didn't you?"

There's a pause, a heartbeat to think of the many ways to answer it. "Maybe," he says grudgingly.

Sam swears under his breath but keeps still. Dean thinks Sam is straining under his blanket, maybe wishing he can flee or maybe to just reach out. And Dean _wants_ him to, wants to touch him so badly, but he's been crossing so many lines for Sam so long and he can't, not now. Not tonight.

Finally, Sam gets tired of waiting and prompts, "And? What did it want?"

Castiel had said, _"God commanded it,"_ with his hand on Dean's arm, a phantom heat that seared through his shirt to fit the palm-shaped scar. Dean shakes it away. "I don't know, Sam."

"Nothing's for free, Dean," Sam says evenly, but his voice is shaking. "We have to know what it wants. Start finding ways–"

"I don't _know_ , Sam. Christ." And Dean's immediately sorry when he sees how Sam's eyes flash, how they narrow to stare at him.

"What _was_ it?"

It hits Dean suddenly that Sam doesn't _know,_ was more concerned over a non-existent debt. "It was..." he trails off, remembering the spreading shadows. "Castiel was...you're never gonna believe it...it's an angel, man."

"Oh. Oh, Jesus," Sam breathes. "Some demon pulled one right over your–"

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean shouts, and he half-expects the windows to crack, mirrors to explode. He doesn't want to get up, he wants Sam to come here and put his arms around him, mark him up because Dean is carrying someone else's brand and half of him loves it, half of him wants to erase it all. "It's not, okay, he's not some...and he maybe wants–"

"HE!"

"–something, _I don't know,"_ Dean finishes, and he turns away again, buries his face against the pillow, wants to sleep. "I don't know, but he says he tries talking to me but he can't do it, and maybe I'm just–"

"Dean."

"–not doing this. Can't you just...just come _here,_ man," Dean mumbles to his pillow, embarrassed, but it's loud enough that Sam is immediately next to him, fitting his chest and hips against the long expanse of Dean's back.

It's not exactly how Dean remembers it. It feels awkward, unsure, but it also feels real, human, _safe._ Sam tucks his face at the crook of Dean's shoulder, and there are mirrors on the ceiling, on walls, everywhere, but Dean has to close his eyes because looking will make him remember years of fitting together. Of Sam's long legs tangled with his, of cocks sliding roughly between hurried fingers, and he doesn't want that, not now. He just wants Sam like this, and it makes him such a _girl,_ but just this is enough for tonight. To make him know it's _real_.

"Dean." His name is a puff of breath on his shoulder, and Sam nips the exposed skin. His fingers skim over Dean's left arm, hesitatingly pausing on the scar as if preparing for confession. "Dean. I wanted you out of hell so badly."

"Yeah, I know."

"But I wanted it to be _me."_ The anguish in Sam's tone is evident. "I still think I _need_ it to be me."

Dean swallows, wants to tell Sam that it's always going to be _him,_ no matter what any angel, demon, or god says. It's never been anyone else, and it's never going to be. It shouldn't matter, but it clearly matters to Sam.

He shifts closer instead, lets Sam's arms around him tighten.

"Hey," Dean says, voice rough. Forgiving. "I'm here now."


End file.
